#royaiweek24

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It’s only ten o’clock in the evening—far too early for the laughter and conversations to die down, or for the music to turn slow, or for anyone to leave the Hugheses’ housewarming party—but by this time, Roy hasn’t had more than a glass of wine, and he has already bid good night to Maes and Gracia, apologized for being unable to stay as long as he’d wanted to, and made his way to the phone in their foyer to call for a cab that will take him home.

Roy is aware of a handful of stares that follow him as he takes his coat from a hook by the door, the same earnest stares that have tried to meet his all night before he decided that he would rather they didn’t. It isn’t as if he didn’t try his best. Madame Christmas had encouraged him to head out and socialize in his free time instead of keeping to himself. Maes had hoped—firmly suggested, really—that he might meet someone he could connect with. It certainly explains the presence of Maes’ attractive cousin and Gracia’s bubbly former classmate, who heavily hinted at being single several times throughout the night.

And Roy knows that Madame Christmas, Maes, and Gracia all mean well, and that the women he met tonight truly wanted to get to know him, besides being pleasing to the eye. He wishes he could have returned their interest, pushed down the discomfort and anxiety that keep him from feigning it as well as he knows he could have. He’s never not wanted to, and just as well, he’s never been able to—not since coming home from the war, not since throwing himself into his work and coming to believe that to think of anything else would be selfish and purposeless.

So he says goodbye to no one else, exits the Hugheses’ apartment quietly, and waits on a park bench just a few paces down the road. Here, he has no one for company, nothing except the flickering street lamps and the chirping of crickets. He exhales, and in his solitude, a tension he hadn’t noticed building in his chest throughout the party dissipates almost immediately, like his misty breath into the chilly night air.

“Colonel?”

Lieutenant Hawkeye has found him. The sounds from the party and the smell of liquor seem to have followed her from the party and out through the front door of the apartment building, but Roy is thankful that it’s she and not any of the other guests who came looking.

“It’s freezing out here, Hawkeye,” Roy says, rising from the bench. “You ought to go back inside.”

She descends the steps to the sidewalk and joins him at the bench. “I wouldn’t mind staying out for some fresh air until you’re ready to rejoin the party.”

“I don’t think I’ll be returning to the party. I’ve told Hughes I’m heading home. He and Gracia were kind about it.”

Lieutenant Hawkeye tilts her head slightly and blinks. “So soon, Sir?”

“Let’s just say I’m not currently at my most sociable, and I wouldn’t want to spoil their evening because of it.” Roy shrugs with a small smile. “I’m sure they won’t miss me too badly.”

“I see.” A pause. “Will you be fine on your own?”

“I will. There’s no need to worry. And I wouldn’t want you to miss the party just to keep me company out here.”

“I actually meant to offer you a ride home, Sir.”

Roy frowns slightly at Lieutenant Hawkeye, and it’s only then that he realizes she is seemingly standing at attention. Sternly, but with a small laugh, he says, “We’re not at work, Hawkeye. I don’t expect you to attend to me. I’ll escort you back inside before you catch a cold.”

“But if we’re not at work, then it’s not an order, is it?”

First, Roy is taken aback, then he suppresses his laughter with a snort. He can’t say that he didn’t expect this kind of response from her, but her sharper jibes are rare enough that he finds himself giving them a second thought when they come. Now he finds himself looking right at her, reading the thinly veiled look of amused self-satisfaction in the slight upward curl of her lips, the barely noticeable arch of her eyebrows, and her eyes—

Her eyes are the color of deep honey, almost incandescent in the warm light of the street lamp just next to him. Soft beneath her expression. So different from how he expected them to look up close that he doesn’t notice himself leaning in curiously to see them better.

“Your eyes... they're brown,” Roy whispers before he can stop himself.

The question that floats to the front of his mind is even stupider—Have her eyes always been this brown?—but it’s a dangerous one as well. All at once, Roy wonders why he hadn’t stopped and noticed it before, what he expected her eye color to be, and most crucially, why it even matters—why, when all this time, she had only ever been his right hand, a capable and dependable soldier, never just a woman.

Now, he’s fixated only on how beautiful her eyes are.

He’s close enough to see the subtlest change in her expression, the nervous twitch in her nose when she says, “Are you drunk, Sir?”

He’s close enough to hear the slight quiver in her voice that suggests apprehension as well as controlled bewilderment, all underneath genuine concern. Then, he notices the flush in her cheeks, the heat radiating from her body—her pale blue dress is lovely on her, and he thinks she should dress like this more often—and, for the quickest moment, her slight wobble when she steps back an inch from him.

Roy frowns. “Hawkeye, I think you’re drunk.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she says a little too loudly. Roy jumps back slightly. She holds her shoulders rigidly and struggles to meet his gaze and now Roy can tell that what he took for shy self-consciousness is actually her attempt—no, her insistence to appear sober. At the back of his mind, he recognizes something he’s sure he’s always known about her. A self-sacrificing stubbornness that always keeps her from leaning on anyone else. He sighs.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye, I’m driving you home.”

“But I—”

“I can’t let you offer me a ride or stay here to look after yourself in this state. My conscience won’t let me.” Roy drops his voice to a gentle near whisper. “It’s all right. Let’s get your coat and keys.”

Maes is right by the door when Roy and Lieutenant Hawkeye briefly return to the party to gather her things. Roy explains the situation while ignoring the interested, almost knowing expression that slowly creeps into Maes’ face as he looks over Roy’s shoulder at Lieutenant Hawkeye. She says good night, apologizes profusely for having to leave early, then asks him to thank Gracia for her cooking. When they leave, Roy walks closer to Lieutenant Hawkeye than he often does, preparing to catch her in case she loses her footing.

It’s the first time that Roy is driving Lieutenant Hawkeye’s car. He’s more careful than usual, but it doesn’t keep his mind from wandering back to her. He notices her silence, coming from an iron will to appear put together. (He wishes she could relax for once.) He notices the faint scent of lemon and vanilla in the car, which he soon realizes is actually her perfume rather than the car freshener. Out of nowhere, he wonders if he can call her by her first name when they’re alone together like this.

The question never leaves his lips. It disappears into his chest and lodges itself in his steadily quickening heartbeat. Roy tries his best to ignore it, but it makes itself felt when he looks up through the windshield and wonders, were the stars over Central always this bright? Was the city this peaceful at night even during the war? Have any of the lovers still walking down the street at this hour known each other as long as he and Lieutenant Hawkeye have?

And when Riza—when Lieutenant Hawkeye wakes up in the morning, will she be all right? Will she have the same tea that she has always had since they were growing up together in her hometown? Will she read the paper; will she head to the market?